Another Young Man
by Katie-Mariie
Summary: The thoughts of a boy on the operating table of Frank and Trapper. Contains slash but it is not a slash story, completely. The opening poem is I Heard I Fly Buzz When I Died by Emily Dickenson.


Title: Another Young Man  
  
  
  
I heard a fly buzz when I died;   
The stillness round my form   
Was like the stillness in the air   
Between the heaves of storm.   
  
The eyes beside had wrung them dry,   
And breaths were gathering sure   
For that last onset, when the king   
Be witnessed in his power.   
  
I willed my keepsakes, signed away   
What portion of me I 1   
Could make assignable, and then   
There interposed a fly,   
  
With blue, uncertain, stumbling buzz,   
Between the light and me;   
And then the windows failed, and then   
I could not see to see.   
  
  
  
  
  
So this is what my life has come down to.   
  
Watching two doctors play footsie. My last living moments will be  
  
watching the guys that are supposed   
  
to be putting me back together,   
  
flirting.   
  
With each other.   
  
That's my last view as a mortal soul,   
  
two homosexuals, bantering,  
  
above and about my pancreas.   
  
Thank you, Uncle Sam!   
  
  
  
I always thought last thing I would ever see would be  
  
my ceiling  
  
as I drift of to sleep, in 1999 or   
  
some time near that.   
  
My kids   
  
and grandkids would've just been over,   
  
eating dinner,   
  
watching the game.   
  
When they left I would go upstairs to sleep   
  
(I was really warn out),   
  
Doris would stay in the kitchen,   
  
doing the dishes, making tea.   
  
I would get in my old man pajamas  
  
and lie down.   
  
Flat on my back.   
  
Close my eyes.   
  
Then sleep.   
  
  
Doris would come up upstairs,   
  
get in her old lady night gown,   
  
lie down next to me,   
  
like we've done for fifty-five years,   
  
and turn off the light.  
  
In the morning, she'd get up,   
  
go down to the kitchen,   
  
start breakfast,   
  
pancakes,   
  
eggs,   
  
bacon,   
  
sausage,   
  
toast,   
  
having not one thought that  
  
I   
  
would not be coming down  
  
again.   
  
  
After fifteen minutes,  
  
when our foods done,   
  
Doris'll come upstairs,  
  
wondering   
  
why I'm not up yet.   
  
Then she'll know.   
  
  
Shocked,  
  
she'd call my daught-in-law,  
  
ask her what to do.   
  
  
All the adults would come over,  
  
call the police,  
  
and wait.   
  
When the fuzz get   
  
there,   
  
Doris wouldn't know how to tell  
  
her story,  
  
my story,  
  
our story.  
  
  
Two days would go by,  
  
then my funeral.  
  
It would be a simple one.  
  
No flag would be given Doris,  
  
no guns would be fired,  
  
just my family,   
  
my fishing buddies,   
  
my friends from the past,  
  
and whoever else I knew from town  
  
who wanted to spend a Sunday on me.  
  
  
One week would pass,  
  
my daughter-in-law would come by,  
  
as she did everyday,  
  
between running errands and picking up the kids,  
  
to check up on my Doris.  
  
  
She would check   
  
the kitchen,  
  
no Doris,  
  
the family room,  
  
no Doris  
  
the dining room,  
  
no Doris,  
  
the bathroom,  
  
no Doris,  
  
and finally,  
  
the bedroom.  
  
There she would find Doris,  
  
asleep.  
  
  
Our graves,  
  
side by side,   
  
as in life,   
  
read the words, "As it was and  
  
as it is." Because  
  
when you die, your life feels  
  
as it did when you were alive.  
  
If it was   
  
blood  
  
death   
  
smoke  
  
in the afterlife you would  
  
taste the blood   
  
feel the death   
  
and smell the smoke.  
  
If it was   
  
pancakes  
  
love  
  
flowers  
  
in the afterlife you would  
  
taste the pancakes  
  
feel the love  
  
and smell the flowers.   
  
  
Me and Doris would be   
  
happy  
  
content.  
  
  
But I got drafted.  
  
There is no Doris,  
  
no country home,   
  
no children and grandchildren.  
  
There will be   
  
no pancakes  
  
no love  
  
no flowers.   
  
Just   
  
blood  
  
death  
  
smoke.  
  
  
  
  
My last view as a mortal soul will be   
  
two homosexuals, bantering,  
  
above and about my pancreas. And they  
  
don't even know why.  
  
  
Maybe it's me dying  
  
but I'm seeing things clearer. All of the knowledge  
  
of my eighteen years   
  
makes sense.  
  
"Stop the fighting," I gasp,  
  
hitting at there operating hands.  
  
  
The older one calls for some more anesthetic,  
  
the other one looks at his colleague,   
  
mumbles, what appears to me  
  
to be,  
  
"Amen."  
  
And then,   
  
before the mask came near me,  
  
I fell asleep. 


End file.
